


The Trophies of the Past

by EggsyUnwin



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Literary RPF
Genre: Forgive Me, M/M, Ridiculous use of Spots of Time, The Prelude mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EggsyUnwin/pseuds/EggsyUnwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William was his dearest friend; the classical companion to him; a muse in male form. </p><p>Perhaps friend was not truly the word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trophies of the Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lordofthedreadfort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordofthedreadfort/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to my cowriter lordofthedreadfort. I can't believe I wrote this. Forgive me.

The bushes were getting overgrown. Coleridge tried not to interpret this as a general sign of what he would find inside the cottage and instead as an indicator that his dear friend had likely been consumed more completely in his work of late. If this were the truth then there would likely be a wealth of new worlds for Coleridge to discover through the doorway of Wordsworth’s perfect words.

The door was unlocked; he stepped over the threshold into Dove Cottage with a sigh and a sense of the world righting itself. He was home.

And fortune would have it that Dorothy was not. It was not that Coleridge did not care for the dear girl. In fact he felt to her quite the same way one would to a younger sibling. It was this sibling kinship that raised the problem: she was as annoying as a younger sibling. Dorothy was someone he cared for and wished well for but could do without when he had a headache or a burst of inspiration. Coleridge felt very differently about the older Wordsworth sibling.

William was his _dearest_ friend; the classical companion to him; a muse in male form.

Perhaps friend was not truly the word.

The English vernacular as versatile and awe-inspiring as it could be when wielded by William fell slack when Coleridge attempted to thrust it into a description of his admiration for William Wordsworth.

“William?”

The silence was broken by a bird outside, the running of a stream—and an undignified huff of breath from the direction of the study. Coleridge strode through, trying to project confidence he suddenly did not feel. Somehow, despite having been here numerous times before, his normal assurance felt quelled by the lack of his friend’s constant diatribe and commenting voice. He reached the study and found William alone, muttering in gasps of breath, bent over his desk, and utterly consumed.

Poetic composition was an all-consuming task. Usually it was Coleridge who gave himself to it so fully but William was challenging him to the title with the single-mindedness he seemed to be approaching his work.

“William?”

His friend nodded vaguely—recognition at last!—but made no movement to move from his hunched state over the sheaf of paper.

“My dear boy, you must tell me what’s consumed you so…” Coleridge stepped closer and William turned his head to through a soft smile in Coleridge’s direction.

“One minute, Samuel.”

An icy feeling of excitement slid down Coleridge’s spine. He gulped and nodded, unsure if his friend was watching or not. “I’m willing to wait for it.” He sat down, found the latest draft of The Prelude on William’s bookcase, and settled in for a few minutes’ read.

Four hours later and looking at William one may believe nothing had changed. Looking at Coleridge one would see the throbbing vein in his forehead had grown more pronounced, his fingers had tightened on the pages of the book around the three hour mark, and his dark pupils were blown wide.

“William…” his voice came out more a stutter, or begging than a confident assertion. Coleridge crossed his legs in case his friend were to turn around and notice anything amiss. “Dorothy’s return must be imminent.”

“She is staying with family,” William murmured.

It was the first sound from the man in hours and was a relief in that it proved the man had not died during composition.

“Surely…you would like to take a break?”

“No. I am perfectly content.”

“I hope this poem is worth it,” Coleridge muttered. William hummed and dipped his quill in his ink well. Coleridge frowned. There was something off about the gesture—it was the first time Coleridge had seen him do it all day. “You’re not writing are you?”

“I am not.”

“Pray, tell me what you have been doing through the best hours of today?”

William’s mouth curved up into a slyer approximation of a smile than the vast majority of Grasmere would believe the Good Young Man capable of. “Why, watching you of course.”

“You devil.”

“We are poets, Samuel. We are all of the devil’s party.” William turned fully in his seat showing himself to be in the same predicament.

“You have been testing me.”

“And you did so well,” William stood up slowly as he said it, and the smile dropped but a steady concentration swelled in his eyes. He stalked across the room and finally reached the chair. Coleridge gulped.

“Do you know what—ah, yes—”

The Prelude dropped to the floor open to Book 12 and the words filled Coleridge’s mind and the presence of his friend slipped over him.

 _For there are in our existence spots of time, that with distinct pre-eminence_ …

 _Remember this_ his mind whirled at him, as if the moment were a memory come with hindsight to warn him of some future horror that would take such moments from him. Once again, he could not find the words. Later, perhaps he would be able to articulate these feelings of anticipation fulfilled, delayed gratification, and magnificent coming together, once they were the trophies of the past. Later, perhaps he would be able to write of this clearly and crystallise it for all time. Later, perhaps this would be but a memory of a moment.

But for now, he was here.

And Coleridge was willing to forgo words and live in the moment for one day.

After all, there was only one life to live.

 


End file.
